


A Little Healthy Competition

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Jim have a little bet going that involves a hefty forfeit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Healthy Competition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speccygeekgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speccygeekgrrl/gifts).



Jim appears at the door of Sherlock’s dorm room at half one with a madder-than-usual glint in his eyes. Sherlock makes himself play four more measures of a Shostakovitch Concerto before setting aside his violin.

“He’s posted them,” Jim says. “I didn’t look. I wanted us to find out _together_.”

Sherlock launches himself off the bed, snatches his coat from its hook, and strides off with Jim at his heels. They make it across campus quickly, though Jim takes three steps for every two of Sherlock’s. A knot of their classmates has formed around the bulletin board outside Professor Chalmers’ office.

Jim catches Sherlock’s wrist before they reach the group. “Do you suppose you’ve a chance to win this one? After that debacle in the history of astrophysics, I’d have thought you’d lose your taste for gambling.”

Sherlock shakes his arm free of Jim’s grip. “We’ll see who comes out on top.”

“Puns?” Jim shakes his head. “Honestly, I despair of you sometimes.”

Sherlock keeps walking. He’s half a head taller than any of his classmates, so he easily spots his name on the list of test scores: right at the top, just above Jim’s.

Jim doesn’t bother to look at the paper; he reads Sherlock’s face instead. “Should have known you’d ace chemistry. All those vials and compounds you fancy.”

“Come on.” Sherlock settles his hand on the back of Jim’s neck and steers him down the hallway.

“Steady on. We haven’t even begun.” Jim tries to twist away, but Sherlock tightens his grip.

“I’ve begun,” Sherlock snaps. “Do keep up.”

“Hm.” Jim sniffs, but he stops resisting.

It’s Jim’s room Sherlock takes them to, because it had been his room last time when he’d come off the worse in their little game. Sherlock bolts the door and takes his time hanging up his coat. When he turns around, Jim is watching him with bright eyes and breathing only shallowly: a very picture of anticipation.

“You may veto three things,” Sherlock says. Last time, Jim had let him veto only one, but Sherlock is feeling magnanimous. After all, his score on the chemistry test had been three whole points higher than Jim’s. He needn’t add too much insult to the injury.

“None,” Jim says. “I waive my right to veto.”

Sherlock examines Jim from across the room, looking for the reason behind the move. He catches it in the quick tilt of Jim’s grin: he’s throwing Sherlock’s mercy back in his face, rejecting caution, proclaiming that Sherlock’s incapable of conceiving a punishment Jim won’t enjoy.

“Very well,” Sherlock says. Once he knows the reason for it, he has no qualms about taking up Jim’s challenge. And in any case, they’re already committed: locked into a strange, sexually deviant game of chicken.

“So.” Jim steps forward. “How do you--?”

“Stop speaking.”

Jim shuts his mouth, though he’s clearly holding back a grin.

“When you speak, it will only be to answer a direct question,” Sherlock instructs. “You will address me as sir. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Jim says immediately.

“Good. Remove your jacket and your shirt. Fold them and put them on the chair.”

Jim complies silently, though he makes the removal of his clothes into a slow tease.

Sherlock is in no rush. He needs to remain cautious. Every line he crosses tonight is another open door for Jim when next the tables turn.

“Kneel. Put your hands on the floor.”

Jim folds himself onto the floor and leans forward on his hands. It seems almost too easy, this obedience. Jim is always unpredictable, and never easy, not like this. Sherlock frowns. He strides over to Jim and looms above him. “What questions did you miss on the test?”

“I won’t know until I’ve seen it, will I, sir?”

“Pull your trousers down.”

Jim unbuckles his belt and pushes his trousers and pants down. They catch around his thighs, and he puts his hands back on the floor without being asked.

“What questions did you answer incorrectly?”

“I’ve told you I don’t know, sir.”

Sherlock settles on one knee beside him. “You overplayed your hand a bit. Three whole points, Jim. Did you think there was a chance I could score lower than that?”

“Are you accusing me of throwing the game? Sir?”

“No.” Sherlock traces a finger from the nape of Jim’s neck down his spine to his coccyx. “I believe you’re simply playing a different game than the one we discussed.”

“But isn’t it fun?” Jim whispers.

Sherlock strikes whip-fast, smacking his hand against Jim’s unprotected bottom.

Jim sucks in a quick breath, and stills.

“You couldn’t have missed that many questions unintentionally. I can only conclude that you wanted to be in this position.” Sherlock reaches under Jim to wrap a hand around his prick, which is hard and hot as a fever. “The evidence supports my theory.”

Jim cranes his neck around to make eye contact with Sherlock. He winks.

Sherlock stands. “Well. I shan’t disappoint you.”

After, when Sherlock is tying on his muffler and Jim is sprawled in a wet spot on the floor of his room, Jim makes a surprised noise.

“You intentionally botched the history of astrophysics exam,” he mutters without looking up.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock says. He shrugs on his coat. “There was some data I wanted to gather.”

Jim rolls onto his back, and laughs up at Sherlock from that position. “Alright, then. Points to you, Mister Holmes.”

“As always,” Sherlock says. He ducks out of Jim’s room and heads back to his own to study for the next exam.


End file.
